“Hold fast, my darling,” mama said. “Say your prayers every night and remember, whatever is told to you, you are a good son, a good Christian and I love you so very much.”
She presented her cheek and William pressed his lips against her soft skin, tears burning the back of his eyes and clogging his throat as her lavender scent filled his head. “Love you too, mama,” he whispered, his hand clasping tightly around hers and wanting nothing more than to hide his face in her skirts and beg not to be sent away. It wasn’t to be; with papa’s passing he had to be the man of the house.
“Come now, Sarah,” Uncle Quentin’s voice boomed in the background. “Do not coddle the boy. No good will come of it if you spoil him.” Sarah obeyed but not before pressing a few shillings into William’s palm with the promise of more when she had means.
William’s eyes were wet as his mother adjusted the collar of his new coat and, from the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle pull the gold timepiece from his pocket and flip it open, his lips tightening to a near invisible line at the endearments being exchanged between mother and son.
“Be well, William.” A last caress and she was gone, back into the coaching inn, leaving him alone with the burly red-faced guard and his uncle.
“Now then, young fellow,” Quentin said, clapping a large hand on William’s shoulder and making the boy’s knees buckle. “There’s no call to be maudlin. St. Peter’s is a excellent school, good enough to make a man even of the likes of you.”
“Five of the clock and on to Oxford” the guard bellowed from the post and then directly to William, “Up you come, young sir, or you’ll be having a longish walk afore you.”
Giving the restless four a wide berth, William clambered up the side of the coach and settled into his seat, buttoning his coat with fingers already numb from the chill October air.
Too-ta-toot shrilled the post horn and they set off with a holler and a lurch. William grabbed the rail for balance and craned his neck for a last glimpse of the inn before it became no more than a pin prick of light on the fading road. Only then did he turn in his seat with a heavy sigh, leaving behind home and childhood to face his future as a man.
**
Breakfast was a hurried affair at Lichfield, with no more time than was needed to change the horses and allow all a chance to stretch their legs. William spent tuppence on a bowl of tea, his stomach rebelling at the thought of solid food with so much swaying ahead of them.
By lunch, taken at the coaching inn at Stratford, he was ravenous. Plonking himself on the wide bench by the fire, William cradled a hot potato in his chilled hands, willing them to warm quickly enough for him to eat the treasured morsel. The fear that had lodged in his heart since Uncle Quentin first announced that he was to be sent away to school was fading and in its place William could feel the first flutterings of excitement.
“I say, is this seat free?” a voice asked and William squinted up at the speaker, a boy about his own age with neatly trimmed dark hair and eye glasses.
“Of course. Please, sit down.” William said, sliding up the bench to make room.
The newcomer did as he was bid and the two boys stared at each other in silence until William remembered his manners and extended a hand. “Bartlett, William. Late of York.”
The other took it and introduced himself in return; “Price, Elijah. Cardiff. The coachman said you were St. Peter’s bound.”
William cocked his head, studying this potential ally. Was he a new boy, like himself? Or already established, with chums who would see through William’s painfully constructed façade. The freshly scrubbed face and overly large coat, so like his own, suggested Price was as much the adventurer as William, and so he answered truly.
“I am. Though this will be my very first term.”
“Mine also,” Price replied earnestly and, after a quick glance around the bustling taproom, leant forward and dropped his faintly accented voice to conspiratorial levels. “To be frank, this is my first trip from home. Father’s newest mission is to Africa and he declares it is no place for a child. I told him that I was not, after all fifteen is nigh on a man, and that I was perfectly capable of living among the most savage of natives.” Price sighed and sat back, tugging disconsolately at his sleeves. “He sent me away to school instead.”
“What about your mother?” William asked.
“My mother is dead.”
The knowledge was imparted with such coolness that William immediately knew she must have passed away many years ago. Even so, the knowledge that they had both lost a parent made him feel closer to his new friend.
“My father died not more than a year ago,” he blurted out, wanting to demonstrate that solidarity. “Though my mother lives still.”
“Your father! My goodness, that must be hard on you. My own is such a brick, I shall miss him terribly while he is abroad.”
William’s chin wobbled as memories of his own father; a much loved if austere and distant man; sprang to his mind. Covering the weakness with a determined shove to position his own glasses on his nose, he agreed; “It has not been easy. Mother does not speak of him without difficulty and Uncle Quentin held him in no high regard.”
“You live with your uncle now?”
“We do. In Derby. He owns several mills round and about.”
Price nodded sagely. “Trade,” he said. “My sister married into trade. Father said it was a good match for the daughter of a clergyman. What of your other family? Siblings? Cousins?”
“There is none. Only myself, my mother and uncle. His second wife died three years ago along with her infant son.”
Their bona fides established, the two boys soon became firm friends. William shared his potato and Elijah, with much ceremony, produced a half loaf and white cheese from which they created a feast fit for kings. By the time the post to Oxford drew away half an hour later, both were certain they had a chum for life.
***
The boys in the yard confronted the newcomers as a pack would a new puppy; some posturing defensively, their hackles raised, others sniffing around and wagging their tails, eager to be friends. Ballard watched from a distance, as behove a sixth former, leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the gatehouse affecting an air of extreme boredom.
His eyes narrowed when a late coach from Oxford drew up, gravel spraying from under the hooves of the overheated four. By rights it should contain his natural prey, the scholarship boys. With little or no influence to their name, they would be at the mercy of every bully in the school, and thus grateful for whatever kindness came their way. What jewels had been sent him this time?
“Any likely looking lads, Cropper?” a lilting voice enquired and Ballard inclined his head, drawing his friends’ attention to the two most recent arrivals struggling down from the roof of the post. The first, dark-haired and lanky, offered a helping hand to the second, blond and diminutive. Both boasted clothing several sizes too big and eyeglasses only a doting mother would inflict on her offspring.
“Meagre pickings,” Munro commented, and then closed his mouth with an audible click, suddenly aware that he had over-stepped the bounds of good behaviour. As a fifth-former his position was tenuous among the bigger boys and only tolerated as his step-brother was prepared to defend him against all-comers.
“Mayhap, not,” his brother replied, his eyes fixed on the new boys as they stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed around the courtyard. “Even a frog may become a prince if properly kissed.”
Munro thrust his hands deep into his pockets, a habit that drove his brother wild with frustration and earned him a clip around the ear.
“Leave off, Patrick,” he whined, removing his fists all the same. The name earned him another swat, which he managed to duck, and a glare from Cropper. “Sorry; Brutus.”
“And don’t ye forget it, young ‘un,” Brutus said, affecting the brogue of his dead father.
“Are we agreed?” Ballard asked, coming between the siblings. Brutus pursed his lips and then nodded, turning to Lyall and saying, “Set it up.”
Without further ado, Munro whirled on his heel to go and hunt down Jones. If instructed to do so, the lower-fourth bully would drive the new boys into Ballard’ clutches within the week.